


The Tragedy of Whitestone

by childishillusions



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-04 03:48:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5319302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/childishillusions/pseuds/childishillusions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young bard from a distant city entertains at a bar in Emon. Her unique song provokes curiosity and concern from those who recognize the name of the town she is from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is also posted on my account on emon public library.

A hooded young man – or perhaps woman, as the barkeep couldn’t quite tell from the gait and lean form almost stumbled into the crowded room. The newcomer made their way over and asked in a rougher version of the accent that one of Vox Machina had. “I am a bard, from Whitestone. All that I ask is for you to let me sing for an hour for coin in your tavern, sir. I have traveled very far and need some if I am to find lodging and food tonight.”

The bartender sized the other up – the other’s hands were nearly trembling from the unseasonable cold outside, but the other’s voice was firm and faintly musical. “Alright, one hour and that’s if your voice doesn’t upset my customers, but if you sing well and keep their attention and keep them buying, I will let you stay longer, agreed?” Usually he would demand a cut of the bard’s earnings for the night, but there was something about the young woman that tugged at the Emon native’s heartstrings.

A grateful grin appears on her face and the young bard nearly sags in relief, leaning against the counter for a couple of moments before squaring her shoulders and taking in a deep breath of relief, asking “Where do you want me to sing and play?” She pulled out a small, battered lute and glanced around the bar.

“Over there on the stage. There is a stool there for you to sit on as you sing.” The bartender responded, nodding towards a relatively empty space.

“Thank you sir.” The bard responded, eyes a little over-bright with gratitude as she walked over to the small stage, pulled out the mentioned stool from under a nearby empty table and began to sing – she sung folk songs from her home town, as well as some of the songs and stories she had heard in the villages and towns that she had wandered through as she desperately searched for more than the rumor that kept hope alive that one of the De Rolos had managed to escape Whitestone.

A well-dressed merchant – by his gold-trimmed purple cloak and clothes – dropped several silver coins and asked, his voice polished and silken, asked “Do you have any stories or songs that you have been working on? I would like to hear it, and would be willing to offer a larger tip for it, my dear girl.”

The young bard nodded – she had been trying to gather her courage to sing of what had happened to her people, but she had wanted to wait until her hour was mostly gone as the tale was far from a happy one and she was gathering a surprising amount of coin. Out of the corner of one of her eyes, she saw another one of the more generous customers in this bar, a blonde woman once again sat near where the young bard had been singing and playing. “Very well sir… I do have one such tale, but it… Is not very happy.”

“Not all songs should be happy. I am intrigued now, please do sing miss.” The goatee-sporting merchant encouraged, the easy smile on his face broadening a little.  
The bard cleared her throat a little as her fingers started to pluck out a slower and more somber tune than the cheery sounds she had been making until now and began to sing, eyes closing as she did so, lest she lose her courage by watching the reactions of the customers in the bar:

“I beg you to attend this tale,  
Despite the death and pain.  
As vampires roam and banshees wail  
And torment those who remain.

It began that terrible night,  
When the Briarwoods came.  
They killed our nobles, not a blight!  
Despite what they claim.

The castle was stormed in the dark,  
And just as the dawn broke  
We saw what was to be the start  
Of the pain they’d invoke.

They break our backs and make us bleed!  
Some of us have tried to die,  
And yet in death, we are not freed.  
The dead groan, asking why.

Examples hang on the sun tree,  
Swinging from gallows-rope.  
Some tried to fight, others to flee,  
Others tried to bring hope.

Crops do not grow well anymore,  
Clouds have covered the sun.  
That’s not all they’ve in store  
At night we cannot run

From the mountains, they brought giants,  
Hulking, undead monsters,  
Patrolling the town by Their will  
Our violent new masters.

An unholy fog comes at night.  
In that mist, sharp teeth gleam  
Searching for living flesh to bite  
We’re trapped in their regime.

Though they crush us beneath their boots.  
We hold a fragile hope,  
for one De Rolo escaped their brutes  
For him, we’ll fight and cope.”

The young bard stopped singing and slowly lifted her face to look around at the completely silent bar – it had gone quiet part way through her song, but she had wanted to at least try to finish the song once before she was thrown out (or worse) and found a sea of stunned, pensive faces of the tavern’s customers, the blond Elven woman, and the purple and gold wearing man the most prominent of the group.

The Elven woman was the first to break the silence – and the semi-circle that had gathered around the young bard, moving closer to her as she asked “What is your name, miss? You have a beautiful voice.”

“N-Neva, ma’am.” The young bard responded truthfully, not quite hiding the flinch as the stranger approached. Neva tried to read the older woman’s intentions and found that she could not.

The brightly dressed man cleared his throat and dropped a small pouch into the tip-bucket that had been set out for her and inquired “Neva, what town do you hail from, that has been through such terrible strife?”

The thought of lying about this terrible situation hadn’t once occurred to the young bard as she answered earnestly “I come from Whitestone, sir. I… I am feeling rather tired, as I have traveled far. If none of you mind I shall take my leave.” With that, the young bard grabbed the bucket and fled the tavern, making a mental promise to bring back the bucket in the morning.


	2. Hope in Emon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neva apologizes to the tavern keeper for running off and explores Emon. While wandering she is found by someone who wants to talk to her.

“I am sorry for running off with your bucket last night sir.” The young Bard murmured apologetically as she set said bucked down where she had pulled it from the night before. Neva was glad that the tavern owner didn’t seem to be angry at her for running off like that… At least as far as she could tell.

The tavern keeper smiled warmly at her and answered cheerfully “It is fine! That last song of yours had my customers eating and drinking much more after you finished. Most of them also wanted to give you more tips because of it. I set aside what they had left for you lass as if even half of the misery you sung of is true, you need it far more than I do. You can sing here tonight, and any other night you like here.” With that the man pulled out a medium sized wooden bowl that was full to the brim with coins. It was mostly full of silver and copper pieces, but there was a surprising number of gold coins as well.

Neva’s heart filled with hope. If she could pull in this much each night for a couple of weeks, she might be able to afford to get a bag of holding and good weapons to stockpile so that when she did return Whitestone, she might be able to help better arm others in attempting to take the Briarwoods down. Neva also hoped that she would be able to corroborate the stories of Vox Machina in Emon, including the desperate hope that Lord Percival was among their number, and had thus escaped the slaughter was true. while she and those who had not fallen to the charms of Lord Briarwood (either willingly or because of his dark and twisted magic) wanted to believe those who had come from Emon with their tales of the outside world, and the dizzying hope that there was a De Rolo who was not imprisoned by the Briarwoods. It was tempered by the fact that each of the newcomers had been sent to spy on Whitestone and through some machination of the Briarwoods, every last one of them had been found by the tyrants as spies and killed.

Who – whether it was someone in Whitestone, or perhaps here in Emon, had betrayed them was something that none of them had been able to figure out so far. Lana only hoped that the traitor die miserably in pain and soon so as to not cause further damage. “Thank you very much sir! I will sing and play tonight as well.” This was said with a genuine smile of delight, despite her dark thoughts. Once she had been carefree and lacked the low-level worry that lurked in the back of her thoughts ever since those tyrants had forced their cruel and unyielding rule over her home. She would have been terribly upset at herself for wishing ill of another, but she had changed much in the past five years.

“You are welcome. It is not every night that a bard in my tavern catches the attention of Lady Allura – not that I had known that she was here until after your sudden departure lass.” The tavern keeper responded conversationally as he continued to wipe out the tankards out. “I suspect that she had been hoping to find a member of Vox Machina here, as they frequent my tavern when they are in Emon, as my ale is the finest you’ll taste.”

Neva’s eyes widened and a small gasp escaped her when he mentioned the band of adventurers. Her heart stuttered nervously at the mention of this mysterious Lady. “W-who is this Lady Allura? A-and does V-vox Machina stop here o-often?” She couldn’t quite contain her nervousness (or excitement) and it showed in her stutter.

“Lady Allura is on the Council of Emon – they rule the city. She is an Arcanist and a fine woman – nothing like those miserable wretches your people are currently suffering under.” The tavern owner soothed, noticing the other’s distress. He had also seen the way that she had reacted to the mention of Vox Machina. Perhaps she had been sent by the desperate people of Whitestone to beg for their aid – or perhaps to seek out the assistance from Emperor Uriel. On the other hand the Briarwoods had been in Emon for trade talks, if the stories were true. If they had been in talks with the Council of Emon she would possibly know this as a member of the two n that was apparently suffering so terribly under their new rulers and would be thus hesitant to try and speak with the leaders of Emon, and rather ask for the aid of the mightiest band of adventurers in all of Tal’Dorei for assistance… And wasn’t one of Vox Machina from Whitestone originally? “If you seek their services, then you should head to Greyskull KeepIt is where they live when they are here in Emon. I am curious - one of their number does hail from Whitestone I believe. His full name is long, but he is referred to as Percy? He has silver hair, light blue eyes and is fairly tall for a human man? He is a tinkerer as well.”

Neva, who had been carefully placing the coins in the several small purses on her person and had nearly finished doing so, dropped the last handful of coins on the table in shock, her fingers going limp and nerveless as (except for his hair color) the tavern owner described Lord Percival. Her head spun a little and she realized that she had been holding her breath. The young bard forced herself to answer the question in as even and casual a tone of voice as she could manage “I knew of Percy, before the Briarwoods came. The knowledge that he did escape them is… Is…” The young bard found herself unable to continue speaking without potentially saying something that she possibly shouldn’t. It was strange to refer to one of the two rightful rulers of Whitestone so informally, but she would not reveal that secret of his as he had hidden his nobility in order to avoid the tyrants’ grasp. “I am glad that he is alive and well. I will be back here at dusk… For now I think I shall explore this city. Emon is large and beautiful.” She quickly collected the last of the coins from where she had dropped them before leaving, a skip in her step.

~

She had heard tales of the size of the capital of Tal’dorei but she had not quite believed, nor had she quite grasped the sheer _size_ of Emon. Whitestone was at most the fifth the size of this city – and that was from what she had seen! There were so _many_ people and a sizeable number of them weren’t human – or at least not fully. Neva tried not to stare at all of the sights and sounds and smells around her, as she knew that it would mark her as a soft target to those who found pleasure and profit in taking advantage of those who did not know their way in large cities.

There was a purpose to her wanderings – she was looking for weapon shops – magical weapons at affordable prices if she could find them but normal weapons would be better than none at all. Neva was also searching for a bag of holding. She knew that such an item would be able to carry many more weapons while keeping the weight and visibility of said weapons than carrying dozens of blades or arrows in a knapsack as she knew that keeping a low-profile when not singing for coin was the best way to stay alive.

Neva stopped dead as she stared at… What appeared to be a tent of some kind. The fabrics were dark purple and blue among other colors. The young bard noted that instead of a door there were strings and strings of beads that were equally brightly colored. Her breath caught in her throat and she slowly backed away from the lurid-looking place. Something _that_ eye-catching rarely meant anything good after _They_ had taken over her home and wariness warred with a morbid sense of curiosity as to what could possibly be in this place.

A hand landed on her shoulder, as a warm, masculine voice cheerfully stated “That my dear, is the entrance to Gilmore’s Glorious Goods – my store. I have many items for store. Everything from magical cloaks and weapons to potions and items.”

The young bard nearly yelped as she twisted away from the tall, bearded human’s grip and nearly panicking when she couldn’t break free of his grip. Her hands went to the small daggers she kept on her at all times as she stuttered out “P-please let me go, s-sir.  Y-your shop is curiously colored and I would be delighted to have a t-tour of your place.” Her throat – which had been pounding in her chest – leapt into her throat as she found them both in the man’s other hand.

“I can understand your wariness my dear – after all the misery you sung of last night is enough to harden and make weary even the most hopeful and ebullient of persons.” Gilmore (as she guessed his name was – he did lay claim to the store that had a man’s name in it after all) soothed as he handed her the daggers he had taken from her. “All I wish to do is to speak with you. I am a patron of Vox Machina and one of their number hails from Whitestone originally.”

Neva looked up at him, pulling herself together as she straightened up, eyes filling with determination and she asked “What would you like to ask of me, sir? I hope you understand that I am wary of someone who suddenly appears next to me, holding the weapons I use to defend myself with that had been on my belt.”

The wizard chuckled at her words, dark eyes sparkling with mirth “You are spirited, which will carry you far if you keep that fighting spirit. Then again, living in a place as bleak as you had described one has to be that way, lest they shatter into many pieces.”

The young bard nods jerkily, eyes faraway as she remembered the daily struggle to keep fighting against the Briarwoods and their band of mercenaries. She had seen more than a few slowly falter and lose their will to fight and to live as the days and months dragged on in a miserable gray bleakness. “Thank you sir… But you have yet to answer my question.”

Gilmore was about to respond when Neva spotted several armed guards headed their way – she recognized the uniforms as she had passed a couple of them on her way into Emon. The young bard tensed up considerably, eyes darting around for a place that she could hide in, and quickly. When the guards were out in Whitestone it usually meant that someone was going to be dragged to the Sun Tree to be hung… and that was on a _good_ day. She dashed off as surreptitiously as possible, slipping into an alleyway and running as soon as she was certain that no one was looking at her and there were no guards in the area to ask _why_ she was running.


End file.
